2110-4-4-12

Crosswood West Calder

12th May 1924

J Walter Buchan, Esq. Commercial Bank House Peebles

Dear Sir,

I hope you will excuse my boldness in writing to you to ask an obligement.

I will be very much obliged if you will hand, or forward to your brother the author the enclosed copy of verses composed by my brother James after reading Mr. Buchan's book of Poems.

I might take this opportunity of saying how much we have enjoyed Mr Buchan's works beginning with "The Half- Hearted" but I think "Greenmantle" is our favourite.

I should also like to say how much we appreciate Miss Buchan's books. We have read them all except the last. "The Seatons" is our favourite, but "Anne & Her Mother" was read with keen enjoyment by our household when in appeared as a serial in the "British Weekly".

Yours Sincerely

Wm F Little

Lesh, man did ever mortal see Sic blasts O' snaw! ye'll bide a wee afore ye think to cross the lea, And mount the slack! Kin'le your pipe and straucht your knee, And gie's your crack. (Buchan).

Lesh man! as you begin yer'sel, Ye're auld farrant hamely tale to tell, The ups an' doons that you befell Are to the life. Sae trustin' you keep well! as well as your guid-wife.

Oor wather's aye just much the same, Wi' blast O' snaw, and blasts O' rain! And chirts O' frost aye nee an' than To clear the air. But still the sun blinks through again, What want we mair?.

I've come ma'sel O' herding stock, Just decent, honest, hamely folk, The' scrimp O' learnin', still I trock And scart a line, But weel I ken, mang learned folk I ne'er can shine.

Aye stationed on some lone burn head, Ane's flock tae tend, ane's life tae lead, Wi' great ambition aye to read, And read again, Ye'ed be surprised if thus we feed What we attain.

The maist O' folk that ane would meet, They'd hardly fail ye thus to greet, Hoo in this lone deserted seat Can you exist?, Whiles smoored in snaw, whiles drooned in weet, Whiles lost in mist.

Noo wait a wee! till I explain There ne'er was loss, but some sma' gain, Ye're lonely life it thus will train To self-reliance, That learned folk can ne'er attain Wi' a' their science.

A guid spring nicht, or winter's day, An' sheep high lyin' on the brae To bed at nicht ye thankfu' gae Wi' a' thing snug; A roaring drift at break O' day Sings by ye're lug.

Noo here the tug O' war begins, What airt's the win', what sykes, what linns Are like to fill, An' death begins Should ye delay, Ye get gey nim'el en ye're pins, An tak's the brae.

A collie trottin' at ye're heel, As up the brae ye tentie speel, Keepin' an' ee' on orra biels Where sheep may clap, Frae other storms, ye ken fu' weel Where they may hap.

An' noo tae cross the "Byre-Cleugh-Head," Ye set ye're teeth an' gang wi' speed, The collie he keeps on the lead An' "Fidgin' fain", He kens fu' weel we mickle dreed The Lang-Run-Drain.

An' feg's! my sang its sleekit owre, Sae "Ben" he stauns a wee tae glower, But no fer lang; Wi' pith an' power He sets tae wark. The snaw sends fleein' in a shower, An' whiles a bark.

The job we tackle, turn aboot, A weel-kent face comes keekin' oot An' bang she comes, like doon a shoot Ane efter ither, The hale heft safe, nor wants a cloot That weel nicht smither.

We left the toon at skreech O' day, An' trauchlin' hame at gleamin' grey, Sae battered up wi' snaw are we Ye scarce wad ken, But licht-O-hert as doon the brae We hameward ben'.

To ingle side an' trig Guid-wife That's been my comfort a' my life, There's no her like 'tween here an' Fife I'll wad a groat, An' tho' O' siller I'm no rife Py'ed on the spot.

Afore I here lay doon my pen, I'd like to say a word for "Ben" HE's wiser far than mony men I weel can threep, There's little that he does'na ken 'Bout workin' sheep.